"Archy McNally," I said, giving her the 150-watt smile I call my Jumbocharmer.
"Theo Johnson," she said, and reached out a hand to shake. It was one of the hardest decisions of my life to let go.
"A fantastic portrait, Miss Johnson," I told her. "But it doesn't do you justice."
"Thank you," she murmured, and gave me the full blaze of azure eyes. "You're very kind."
Naturally I wanted to say more, but I was elbowed away by other victims, and regretfully departed with the feeling that I had been privileged to be in the presence of great, almost supernal beauty. For the third time, Lolly Spindrift had been right: my timbers had been shivered and I was in love.
Again.
I left the gallery and drove home singing one of my favorite songs: "When It's Apple Blossom Time in Orange, New Jersey, We'll Make a Peach of a Pair."
2
I awoke the next morning with the conviction that if Johnny Keats was right-"Beauty is truth, truth beauty."-then Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth had no reason to worry about the motives of Ms. Theodosia Johnson. How could a paragon with that mass of shimmering chestnut hair, those burning eyes, that Limoges complexion ever be guilty of even the teeniest deceit? Ridiculous! As far as I was concerned, my investigation could be canceled forthwith.
But I knew if I dared suggest such a thing to my father, he wouldn't say a word. He would merely glare at me from under those snarled eyebrows, and that would be my answer. So, sighing, I started the second day of what I later came to call The Affair of Madam X.
I was late getting downstairs, as usual, and so I breakfasted in the kitchen, served by Jamie Olson. He was working on what was probably his third mug of black coffee to which, I was sure, he had added a splash of aquavit.
Jamie is seventyish, semi-wizened, and a taciturn bloke. He is also privy to all the backstairs gossip in Palm Beach, stuff even Lolly Spindrift isn't aware of since it's shared only by the servants of the Island's nabobs. And the things these maids, chauffeurs, valets, housekeeps, and butlers know or suspect would make a platoon of tabloid editors moan with delight.
"Jamie," I said, after I had smeared my toasted onion bagel with salmon mousse, "have you ever heard of Theodosia Johnson?"
"Yep," he said. "A looker."
"She is that," I agreed. "I understand she's been here about a year. Lives with her father, Hector, in a rented condo. Do they have any staff?"
"Don't know."
"Could you find out?"
"Mebbe."
"What about the Smythe-Hersforths? Hear any talk?"
"Tight."
"Tight? You mean stingy?"
"Uh-huh."
I seemed to be making little progress with Jamie, but I had learned from past experience that patience frequently paid off. He really was a remarkable fount of inside info. Turning on the tap was the problem.
"I can believe the gammer might have miserly tendencies," I said. "What about the son, Chauncey Wilson? I know he's got a good job with a local bank. All title and no work. Is he also a penny-pincher?"
"Yep," Jamie said.
"Blood will tell," I said, and poured myself another cup of coffee that had been laced with chicory. "One more: How about the painter, Silas Hawkin? Know him?"
He nodded.
"How many in his menage?"
"Menage?"
"Household."
"Him, wife, daughter. One live-in."
"Everything harmonious there? All peace and goodwill?"
"Nope," Jamie said.
I woke up. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.
"Him."
"I can understand that," I said. "The man's a dolt. Know any details?"
He shook his head.
"Ask around, will you, Jamie? About Theodosia and her father, and the reason for discord in Si Hawkin's not-so-happy home."
He nodded.
I slipped him a tenner before I left. The lord of the manor would be outraged to learn that I customarily gave Jamie a pourboire for information. The Olsons drew a handsome stipend to keep the McNally family comfortable and well-nourished, but I felt revealing inside skinny to yrs. truly was not included in domestic chores and deserved an extra quid now and then.
I went into my father's study and sat in the big armchair behind his desk, feeling like a fraudulent dauphin. I used his local telephone directory that had been bound in a leather slipcover. I swear, he would put a calfskin cozy on a teapot. I looked up the number and pecked it out.
"The Hawkins' residence," a chirpy female voice answered. I presumed this was the live-in.
"May I speak to Mr. Hawkin, please," I said. "Archy McNally calling."
"Just a moment, please, sir," she said.
It was more than a moment, more like three or four, before he came on the line.
"Yeah?" he said. It was practically a grunt.
"Good morning, Si," I said, giving him a heavy dose of the McNally cheer. "That was a wonderful show last night."
"It went okay," he said. "Ivan Duvalnik called earlier and claims we got two new clients out of it and four possibles."
"Congratulations!" I cried. "Due to that marvelous portrait of Theo Johnson, no doubt. Listen, may I pop over this morning and ask a few questions? That silly inquiry I mentioned to you last night. It won't take long."
"Well… all right," he said, "if you keep it short. I've got a lot of work to do."
"Just take a few minutes," I promised. "I'm on my way."
They lived in an imitation Mizner on the Intracoastal down toward South Palm Beach, and when I saw the house, really a villa, I guessed a million five. Then I saw the guest house and changed my estimate to two million five. That detached, two-story edifice looked like an enormous Nebraska barn painted white, but the upper floor seemed entirely enclosed in glass, and I mean big, openable picture windows. It had to be the artist's studio-or a solarium devoted to sunbathing in the buff.
I was greeted at the front door of the main house by the chirpy-voiced domestic who had answered the phone. I had envisioned her as young, small, lissome. She was old, large, creaky.
"Archy McNally," I said. "To see Mr. Hawkin."
"Of course," she said, and her smile won me over. "Do come in."
I followed this pleasant woman into a home decorated in what is called the Mediterranean Style, but whether that means Marseille or Beirut I've never been able to figure out. Anyway, I thought it a strident interior with a lot of rattan, jangling patterns, acidic hues, and the skins of endangered species. On the walls, to my surprise, were seascapes and paintings of Lake Worth by Silas Hawkin. I had no idea he did that kind of thing, but there was no mistaking his style; the man was a superb colorist.
There were two women seated in the Florida room, leafing through slick magazines, and it was the older who rose to greet me.
"You must be Archy McNally," she said, holding out a hand. "I do believe I've met your parents. I am Louise Hawkin."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am," I said, pressing dry, bony fingers.
"And this is my daughter, Marcia," she added.
"Stepdaughter," the younger woman said in a Freon voice, not looking up from her copy of Vogue.
Mrs. Hawkin made a small moue as if she had suffered that correction before.
"Glad to meet you, Miss Hawkin," I said, and was rewarded with a nod. One.
"Would you care for something to drink?" Mrs. Hawkin asked. "Coffee perhaps? Or anything else?"
"Thank you, no," I replied. "I promised your husband I'd only stay a few minutes. I know how busy he must be."
"Oh yes," she said airily, "he's always busy."
I heard a sound from the stepdaughter. It might have been a short, scornful laugh. Or maybe she was only clearing her throat.